


An Educational Correspondence

by inamac



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the start of a new term Minerva enters into a correspondence with a fellow witch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Educational Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Minervafest 2014 to a prompt request for a Discworld crossover.

Hogwarts

Where there are witches there are castles. Sometimes the witches inhabit the castles. These are not normally the sort of witches who respond well to a request to borrow half a cup of sugar or an enquiry about an effective wart removing charm. They tend rather to swan around in tight-fitting velvet and overly-spiky headgear and preen themselves in front of magic mirrors, though they might, in certain circumstances, be prepared to share a cup of poison or a wart-inducing charm.

In general the other sort of witch prefers to live a little further down the road, ideally in a small cottage in the middle of a forest, with access to an overgrown herb garden and biddable woodland animals. They regard more than one point on a hat as unnecessarily ostentatious, though they might be persuaded to provide the resident of the local castle with the odd prophecy and some advice on removing vermin. Castle or cottage, though, witches generally prefer to live alone.

This was a view with which Minerva McGonagall frequently agreed. Hogwarts, she thought, had rather too many witches, and she was not just thinking about this year's students. Or the student body at all. How Gryffindor were ever to win the Quidditch Cup while Madam Hooch insisted on teaching the 1-4-2 formation when it was obvious that the strengths of the Gryffindor team were in defence and therefore the 2-2-3 arrangement was infinitely better, she did not know. She must make a note to attend that afternoon's practice to ensure that her team was properly instructed. And as for Lamia's disruptive diminutive insects – really, it was time that Amando looked for a more effective Divination teacher. Practice was all very well, but some techniques, particularly in the use of bees for divining the answers to test papers, required rather more finesse than could be found among the students of the Lower Sixth.

Minerva slid the pile of honey-sticky parchment into the waste bin and rolled up the rest of the marked papers.

The start of Spring term was always difficult. The children were still excited after the Christmas holidays, and determined to demonstrate the various gifts that they had received from doting parents to the detriment of discipline. At least she would have no difficulty finding an appropriate detention for the pupil who so enjoyed working with stinging insects. She had noticed a large wasps nest attached to the eaves of the South Gallery and was sure that Mr Filch would appreciate help in getting it down.

She looked around for her journal to make a note, and only then realised that she had left it sitting on her bedside table at home. Drat! Well, it was a new year so there was no reason not to start a new book. There would probably be something suitable in the stationery cupboard.

Minerva rose, donned her shawl, for the corridors were chilly at this time of year, and set off along the tapestry-lined gallery, certain that she had seen an appropriately labelled door somewhere along here. Really she wished that the caretaker wasn't so keen on moving things about, though he always disclaimed responsibility. The door, when she finally found it after passing the spot three times, was labelled 'STATIONARY STORE'. Suspecting Albus of playing one of his silly jokes (the mis-spelling was his sense of humour), she turned the handle with care.

The room beyond seemed to contain an awful lot of things apart from stationery, but there was a neat shelf of quills by the door, clean rolls of parchment in pigeon holes further in, and two cupboards, one full of old text books and the other containing a number of leather-bound ledgers ruled for school expenses. At the bottom of the shelf, obviously ordered for some school project long abandoned, was a small pile of blank notebooks with the word 'Journal' stamped on the covers. Perfect. She ignored the tingle of magic as she picked up the top one from the pile. Probably some preserving spell, since the place was remarkably free from dust and cobwebs. A quick flick through revealed that the book was unused, and the pages were in very good condition for their age, with not a trace of cracking or foxing. She dropped the book into her pocket and, for good measure, appropriated a couple of quills and a bottle of ink. Then she carefully closed the door and returned to her study. She did not notice the door, with its ironic sign, fading into the stonework of the corridor.

Lancre

Yes, castles are not good homes for witches.

Magrat Garlick was a witch. She was also a Queen, though not, she insisted, a witch-queen – she was very definite about that, and references to horned helmets as appropriate headgear would be met with a reminder of a large axe as an appropriate symbol of office.

It was true that these days her queenly duties left very little time for witchcraft and meeting with the Other Witches on lonely moors, though that was something of an advantage, as it gave her an opportunity to study magical theory without having the Other Witches constantly criticising.

Magrat was the sort of person who liked to explore all her options before making a decision. Most of the time the meticulous research required to decide, for example, which herbs should be used for a headache potion and when they should be picked for best efficacy led other practitioners of more... robust... witchcraft to dismiss her as a bit of a wet hen. But on those occasions when her options were strictly limited, as for example, when trapped in an armoury by a group of evil elves, she could act with deadly speed and efficiency.

She was currently researching Education. Having duly provided her husband with two children, and Lancre with a Prince and Princess1 she had realised that education in Lancre was something of a hit and miss affair. If you were lucky there would be a spinster in the village waiting for the right husband to come along, or a widow eking out her pension and prepared to fill in her time by teaching the children their letters and numbers. Girls were expected to learn the domestic arts from their mothers, and boys a trade from their fathers. Those without fathers (or at least, fathers who acknowledged them) might be apprenticed to a local tradesman or sent off to one of the Guild Schools in Ankh Morpork. The only difference between the education of a peasant and that of a King was that the royal children would be expected to have a specially appointed governess or schoolmaster. The Prince would still be expected to follow his father on the throne and the Princess would learn enough to make her a good wife to a neighbouring Royal. It was all, Magrat thought, looking round the currently empty castle schoolroom, very unsatisfactory.

What she needed was advice. She sat down at one of the desks and lifted the scratched lid. Inside was a scatter of pencils and chalks, a slate with a rather well drawn picture of a Ramtops troll (or possibly the former pupil's schoolmaster2), a bottle of green ink and a leather covered notebook. She extracted the notebook, selected a pencil, closed the lid of the desk and opened the book preparing to make notes.

** Hogwarts Castle, 14 January, 1949 **

**As a new term begins I feel that I am girding myself for battle. But at least it is a battle with the forces of ignorance and indolence, the teacher's perennial foes, and not with darkness and evil. It is a new year and a new beginning. I know that many of our pupils still bear the scars, both emotional and physical, of the late War, as do the staff. There is much that must be done to establish confidence. We need a new approach to teaching to ensure this, though I am not sure whether our present Headmaster would agree.**

Magrat smiled. It seemed that she had found the journal of a former teacher. Well, that was a great advantage, and would help her to order her own ideas. There was a blank space under the words, perhaps the writer had been called away. It gave Magrat space for her own thoughts.

_The aftermath of battle is a good time to start new ideas,_ she wrote. _Pupils must be furnished with the right weapons, and the skills to wield them, the Pen rather than the Pike, Rhetoric rather than the Retarius._

Minerva looked down in astonishment at the words as they formed themselves on the page. She had heard about such books, made in pairs to allow distant communication, but had never come across one before. A pity. It might have been useful, particularly after the Late Events. However, she could not miss the opportunity to explore this magic.

She dipped her quill.

**My name is Minerva McGonagall, teacher of Transfiguration at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Who are you?**

It took some time for her to receive a reply, and when it came the pencil lines were fuzzy, suggesting that the writer had dropped her pencil in surprise and retrieved it somewhat dirty and with a broken point, hastily sharpened.

_~~Magrat, Queen of Lancre~~ Magrat Garlick, witch as was. I'm thinking of setting up a school and could do with some help. What is a Hogwart?_

Hmm. This was a very distant communication, Minerva surmised. The writer must be a very long way away not to have heard of Hogwarts. Well. Their form of magic might be different, but the basics of education were the same across the worlds.

**Hogwarts** she wrote, **was founded by four wizards who believed in identifying the talents of their pupils and teaching the skills that would realise their potential. Things like loyalty, courage and intelligence.** No need to mention the talents that Slytherin had considered desirable; perhaps a Queen might regard ambition and cunning as useful traits but better not to write it. Besides, the writer sounded more like a Hufflepuff; best to emphasise their qualities. Hard work and patience.

Her thoughts were vindicated by the next comment.

_Do you think that children should be taught practical things, or just from books? Nanny Ogg says a ton of practice is worth an ounce of theory, but I'm not sure she was talking about magic._

Minerva shuddered. Whoever Nanny Ogg was she was clearly something of an uncontrolled broomstick. She hoped Magrat had got it wrong.

**Both have their place,** she wrote. **One should not attempt to mix a potion, or bake a cake without a good grasp of the theory and a clear idea of what one wants to achieve. Otherwise one risks blowing up the cauldron or poisoning your guests.** She decided not to mention that exploding cauldrons were a regular feature of Professor Slughorn's lessons and she had no idea whether the kitchen elves had ever encountered a recipe book. **I would not allow one of my transfiguration students to attempt something as simple as turning a hedgehog into a pincushion without them first having read the necessary texts and writing at least a foot of parchment on the procedure.**

There was a long wait for a reply. Minerva had the impression that she had shocked Magrat, but could think of nothing in her comments that might warrant it.

At last there was a worried reply.

_Oh dear. Isn't that rather uncomfortable for the hedgehog?_

The pencilled question surprised her. Her example had been a standard test. She had never really thought about transfiguration from the subject's point of view. This Magrat might be naive but she was the sort of questioning student Minerva appreciated.

_Granny Weatherwax says,_ Magrat went on, _that if you borrow an animal you should always repay it. Hedgehogs like grubs. And milk._

Questioning was all very well, but no student had ever dared raise this point. The care of magical creatures was Silvanus Kettleburn's province. She had never considered that the subjects of her spells required payment. It was a disconcerting thought.

**I'll remember that,** she wrote, thinking that this was safe enough. She decided that a change of subject was needed. **And then there's sport. That is very important. It gets pupils out in the open air and teaches team spirit and co-operation.** To be sure, team spirit and co-operation had not been features of the last inter-House match, but Magrat did not need her thoughts on Quidditch. **And Games,** she added, **are good for teaching tactics and planning.**

Magrat's finger followed the last line. This was fascinating. She wasn't sure about games. Nanny Ogg had tried to teach her Cripple Mr Onion but it was not the sort of game that would encourage honesty and improve moral fibre in schoolchildren. She would certainly discourage Nanny from teaching her children. _Oh yes! Some sort of healthy, outdoor sport does sound like a good idea. I could speak to Verence about team games. Perhaps he could present a Cup?_

A Cup! Minerva almost overturned the inkwell. All this correspondence had driven her reason for finding the book from her mind. She was vaguely aware that the clock had chimed the hour, and the vital first match of the term would be underway! Hastily she scrawled an apology and a promise to return with further thoughts and ideas on education later. Then she swung on her cloak and went to find her broomstick.

Lancre

Magrat looked at the glistening ink still wet on the page. The writer had not stayed to blot the line. Quidditch? She wondered. What was Quidditch? She would have to ask Nanny. She hoped he mysterious writer would return. In the meantime she closed the book and went to find her broomstick.

The End (Of a beginning.)

[1] In the absence of the book on _Marital Arts_ ordered from Ankh Morpork Magrat and Verence had had to resort to Practical Experimentation and Old Wives Tales in pursuit of carnal bliss. Since the Old Wife in question was Nanny Ogg the honeymoon had been interesting.  
[2] Professor Anthracite, the troll, had been Royal Schoolmaster for three generations and had received excellent results.


End file.
